


And a Smile.

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Fluff, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-14
Updated: 2006-03-14
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: It all started with sweaty palms and a smile..[Brians POV]





	And a Smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: This story was actually written by me for another pairing but I re-read it and converted it. I've also had some trouble with people stealing some of my writing and posting it somewhere else so please, don't be fuckers, read it and leave it.  
  
Thanks. Review.  


* * *

I can see him from across the room, even though in these few moments, he's not trying to be the center of attention. He blends in but I can see his eyes surveying the crowded room, hoping to meet mine. They really are the most lovely shade of blue. So sad that he insists on hiding them behind a messy mop of long blonde hair that always falls over his face like a mask. For a moment or two, he doesn't see me just yet and I can watch him from afar. His tongue streaks over his lips in an eager anticipation that I can feel down in the pit of my stomach as well. He pushes his hand through his hair, drawing it back from his face just long enough to give me a clear view of all of his creamy white features before it falls back into place again. Obscured once again. What a shame. 

Justin. 

The world's best groupie. At least, that's how it started out. An obsessed kid that was a good deal of fun to be around and who had connections. We started out in the typical man with a oyunger guy relationship. It wasn't terribly deep. I can listen to songs about love and the grandness of it all but it wasn't about that. I had no intention of getting so wrapped up in a wacky artistic boy that he'd ever be the subject of a song. He'd be one of a thousand others that I spent a night with, a fling with, or just a simple moment with over the course of a cold Pittsburg night. 

On the night that I met him, I remember the little things very clearly despite my somewhat inebriated state. His palms were sweating. I remember that because when we shook hands, he gave me this sheepish smile because he knew that his hands were slick. He was embarrassed. I do wonder sometimes if he hadn't given me that smile that maybe things would be different. A simple gesture and I'm caught. I can speak on the grandiose kind of love designated for songs but sometimes, just sometimes, it's the little things that catch your attention. In this case, a set of sweaty palms and a little boy's smile. 

We ended up somewhere talking long into the night. He complimented me, giving me every stroke that my monstrosity of an ego could use and could handle. It was the same script that everyguy I'd ever known had read from but this time it felt different. Maybe a little more honest because his eyes were honest. Or at least when I could see those eyes since his hair kept falling into them. 

I took him to bed that night. If I hadn't, I probably would have gone to bed alone so he seemed to be a viable alternative to a cold mattress. The other reason was that I was rather smitten with him. I didn't know a great deal about Justin Taylor at the time, except that he made art with himself by himself in a one room apartment, that he was on a scholarship to college here. Beyond that, I knew little except that he had a nice smile and sweaty palms. 

One night became another and another during his stay here. In that time, I got to know him a little better only to find that he was perhaps my opposite in every way that mattered. Based on that alone, we should never have gotten on as well as we did. He left to return back to his home but he comes back often. We'll always end up in bed together and that's how the story progressed until something started to change in me. I still can't quite tell how or why he stopped being a fling and became someone that I could associated songs with. I haven't yet, but I could and that's a significant thing for me. 

His eyes sweep the room one more time and that's when he sees me. I don't blend like he does and it was simply a matter of time before he saw me. A pity, really, because I was enjoying just watching him.   
He crosses the room, not caring if he steps on someone's foot or gets in their way. He has a single-minded focus and it's me. That's rather flattering when you think about it, even as someone who is more than used to being the center of everyone's attention. 

When we are within centimeters of each other, I throw an arm around his neck and pull him close for a kiss to the cheek. It surprises no one anymore that I do such things. He laughs against my lips, smiling. It's that smile that caught me to begin with.

I tell him that I want to go. Back to my place, away from the crowds and the groups of people. He protests for just a moment because he just got here but he gives in after another kiss. This is one to the mouth. Brief but thrilling. 

I needn't ask again. He follows me out of the club and into the cool night. We head back to my flat on foot. I think it was his idea. I don't really recall. Still, it's rather pleasant just walking together, occasionally speaking but not feeling forced to do so. He tells me about his newest art he is working on and I give him a breif overview of what I'm working on with a new account. It's comfortable and to be that is a significant thing for me. He doesn't demand more or even seem to want more from me than just this. 

The pressure was always there. My partners would want more than I could give at any certain time and then it ended badly because I wasn't fully prepared for the next step in the relationship. I don't fault them for it. I was dragging my feet and that's my fault, not theirs. I never understood, though, the feeling of that. To have something so close to you that you feel like you can reach and touch it but when you do, you're blocked by some invisible pane of glass.   
I do now. 

I want more. I'm finally ready to want more. I'm finally the one that is wanting. Not much more. Just one little step in a different direction. I want something simple and stupid in a commitment. Just a little bit. 

What do I want?   
Breakfast. 

I know. I wish it was some kind of interesting analogy that I could use to describe love but it's not. I just want breakfast with Justin. Something simplistic. I never get it, though, because he doesn't stay. Not even with his idol, not even with his God does he stay the night. Never. He never lets himself sleep in my arms. He never lets himself give in and just close his eyes for longer than a moment.

He'll get up, maybe shower, dress, and kiss me good-bye. He always tastes different when it's the kiss that bids me farewell for the evening. It's just a little sweeter, making me want him all the more. A cruel irony, that. It's the good-bye kiss and yet it's the most delicious. His lips always feel warmer, softer in that moment. I would say that it's absence making the heart grow fonder, but he's not gone yet. Perhaps it's a matter of anticipation, but I don't want him to leave. Just once, I'd like him to stay.   
I never ask, though. 

Brian Kinney begs for nothing. Certainly nothing so trite as that. 

So every time that we are together, he vanishes into the night and I'm left alone. It should be the other way around. I should be the one on the other side of the door and yet I'm the one left in the cold bed, pining for the moment that I can't seem to have. I'm always the one to leave and yet here I am, alone not out of my own choice. Control has been taken from me in that respect and I hate that more than anything. I am a perfectionist, controlling prick and everyone lets me get away with it. 

I just can't seem to pull it over on a fucking artistic blond boy.   
With him, I'm not always in control. 

God, I hate that. 

We reach my flat and walk inside without bothering to turn on a light. He can navigate the place in the darkness, as can I. He's certainly been here enough to know the layout and to know how to avoid hitting his shin on a piece of furniture. I don't know why, but that seems amazing to me. Only my close friends could probably pull that off. Micheal, Emmet, or even Theadore. 

He finds his way to my bedroom and it's only then that he flips a switch that turns on the dim glow of the hideous sign above my bed. He pauses and looks around for a moment. I've remodeled. I used to have a massive water bed but after a year of getting sea-sick I had traded it in for a round feather bed. Draped in the same silk blue sheets, of course. Even with the light on, the room is dim by design. All part of the image. 

He tells me that he likes what I did with the place, all the while stripping his shirt off and tossing it aside onto the floor. 

He undresses, as do I, without a hint of modesty anymore. We never were, really, but everyone goes through those few awkward moments when you first start out together. We've passed those, though. Does that make us lovers in another way besides the literal sense of the word? Does that make us in a relationship? If we are, we have yet to admit to it. But then, I suppose if we were not, I wouldn't want him to stay so badly.   
He relaxes on the bed, reclining back on my new soft pillows and bed. It takes me less than a second to cover his body with my own and to shower him with kisses. I've missed him; he's missed me. It shows. Our mouths crush together in a hard kiss. I would be gentle as some way to convey some of those feelings that are running around in my head but it's just not my style. 

I deliberately push his hair out of his face so that I can see his eyes. Finally. He smiles and drifts his eyelids closed to kiss me once again. Always that gaze into his eyes is fleeting. 

His hand drifts over my hip, across my side. It seems every one of my touches is a mirror of his own. We do this. It's a rediscovery process. I haven't seen him in months so it's a matter of getting reacquainted with one another. I memorize the texture of his skin and recall so easily the little places that make him moan just a little bit louder. It all comes back so easily, as though we'd spent no time apart at all. It feels like there was never an ocean between us. 

Reacquainted once again, I reach for the bedside table like I always do when I'm with someone else. There's always the condom and the lube waiting for me. Resting on his stomach on the bed, Justin doesn't say anything while he waits for me. He shows no signs of nervousness. He doesn't anymore. We've certainly done this enough times to make those feelings vanish. He trusts me completely. 

I bite at his ear, just a little nibble, a few moments before I take him. I always feel close to someone when I'm inside them; you can't help that. This, though, is different. I remember all the romantic lines that I've written in songs. Lines about beauty and love. It all seems like it's not enough, though. I would try to find the words but I know there aren't any and something about that scares me. I'm an artist and if I can't find the proper way to describe something, I'm overwhelmed. I don't know if I want to be that. 

It's back to almost feeling powerless for another person. I hate not having that control, especially when I can't figure out why I've given it up for him. I need more from him now and that's frightening. It's one step, but there are always others after that. If I follow that course, I don't know where I'll end up. In love, maybe. 

What's so bad about that? 

Right now with him beneath me, responding to my every touch, I can't come up with a decent answer. One will come later, I'm sure, when I'm alone and he's gone again. I'll think up one when I'm in bed alone tonight but right now, I can't formulate much of a coherent thought. I think too much. I need to stop that. 

I push it all out of my head and just focus on him. I listen for every moan, every whimper. It blocks out the thoughts in my head, drowning them out with his sounds of pleasure. In the dim light, I can see his skin shining with a thin layer of sweat. He is beautiful beneath me. It's just about perfect. I only wish that it could last. I'd pray to a god if I believed in one, just to make this moment last forever. I'm at peace, as much as I can be, and I know it won't last. It can't. 

It's over all too soon. That is not to say that we don't last a long time but anything short of eternity feels like a relative disappointment right now. It does seem almost worth giving up forever, though, to see him come under me and to feel my own orgasm rock me so completely. It's perfectly wonderful but it's the moments after that which I dread. With my other lovers in the past, there was a discomfort more often than not. A simple realization that we'd done everything we'd come here to do and now what? I never have an answer for that. 

Justin doesn't ever seem uncomfortable, though. If there are silences, he doesn't let them infect him. He doesn't force issues. He's just smiling in the afterglow, looking contented. 

He's relaxing, trying to get his breath back. I puff on my inhaler, the sure sign of a good fuck, and recline back on the mattress with him. He smiles at me as he starts to sit up. I know what's coming. He'll reach for his pants and his shirt. There will be a good-bye kiss. He'll be gone in a few moments and I'll be alone with just the fleeting feel of his warmth in the sheets to comfort me. Without thinking, I reach and grasp his arm lightly. He turns, looking to me with a confused but still placid expression on his face. 

"Justin?" I ask. My voice cracks. My strong, beautiful, amazing voice is breaking in front of him. How very embarrassing.   
He smiles and looks at me, "Brian." he says my name only to parrot me.   
"Stay?" I croak. His eyebrows knit as a look of confusion passes over his face. Beautiful bewilderment. "I'd--" I can't meet his eyes and I don't understand why. I've looked into them a million times, perhaps a thousand times even tonight, and yet I can't bring myself to look now. I probably wouldn't even see them. They'd probably be obscured by strands of his hair as they often are but I still don't dare, "I'd like to buy you breakfast." I manage.   
What am I doing? Begging? Fuck. 

I am weak.   
I am pathetic.   
I am not myself.   
I am not in control. 

"Okay."   
I am the happiest man in the world right now.   
Imagine that.   
"You want to?" I ask, trying to get the strength back into my voice. I sound more in control. I don't sound surprised so that's an accomplishment. I am Brian Kinney, after all, and I am in control of everything. 

"Yeah. Breakfast sounds good." he says nothing more about the subject. He just curls up against me. "I'm fuck-all tired, though. So wake me up when it's time for breakfast, 'kay?" he yawns. He burrows his head against my shoulder with one arm draped over my chest. He doesn't say another word. Within a few minutes, I can tell from his breathing and the serene look on his face that he is fast asleep. 

And that's the moment when I realize why I haven't associated a song with him. There's no darkness here. In all the songs i used before, it can be a story of powerful love but there's always a dark edge to it, no matter what. There's nothing like that in him. He's not like me, I remind myself, and maybe that's the appeal. His darkness, whatever that he might have, is not like my own. We are different. That's good. The last thing the world probably needs is another Brian Kinney running around. 

It's funny because I know he wants to be me. That's the last thing I want for him, though. I like him just the way he is. I just wonder if he knows that. Maybe someday I'll grow the balls to tell him.   
I finally have what I wanted. He's here, asleep with me, and he's not leaving. He'll finally get to see the morning from this side of my bedroom door. I can't quite explain why the idea of that thrills me so much. I don't know why it makes me so happy. Someone should explain it to me. Tell me why. Tell me how it is that a silly art student who makes funny faces when he's drunken too much worked his way into my life so completely. Tell me how it is that the simplest things from him seem to mean the world to me. Explain to me why he's changing me. 

I don't have an answer. Maybe that's just the way things are. They progress and they change, just like music does. Every subsequent album evolves a little more. It could be the same way for a relationship. Things change. They mature. I suppose that's what we're doing now. 

I don't really know what he's doing to me or how he's doing it. I'm just now starting to accept the fact that it's happening and that as much as I like being in control, I don't think that I can manipulate the wild ride on this one. And maybe, just maybe, that's okay. 

It'll be okay just as long as he keeps letting me buy him breakfast.   
Looking at him, fast asleep against me, I remember one simple little fact: it all started with sweaty palms and a smile.


End file.
